


Never Like It Is

by trycatpennies



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Cheating, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-11
Updated: 2011-05-11
Packaged: 2017-10-19 06:48:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trycatpennies/pseuds/trycatpennies





	Never Like It Is

It's not like they never talk anymore. It's more like with the insanity of tours and recording and getting married and having a fucking kid, that the talking ends up being three text messages a month making sure the other is alive and that the tabloids aren't reporting on a clone.

And it's not like they don't try, either. It's not that they don't pick up the phone, because Mikey's sure that he's actually managed to dial the first five digits of Pete's phone number more than a few times but he's never managed to actually finish it.

Shit happens.

Mikey remembers when that was the first call. When he'd roll over from waking up from a nightmare at three am and Pete would be awake, however many miles away in LA and Mikey'd tell him everything he did that day, in half sentences and monosyllables, and Pete answered in monologues and metaphors.

It's not like that anymore, it's been too long since 2005. It's been a long time since Mikey's been that coked up and drunk, and since Pete's been that needy and broken. It's been a long time since they needed each other badly enough to make out in Pete's bunk and leave bruises and scratchmarks on each other's skin.

There's three weeks when Alicia's in California, and Mikey goes with her. He doesn't stay with Sarah, mostly because Alicia'd told him he couldn't, and he doesn't stay home, because last time he went too stir crazy without anyone to talk to.

When he calls Pete there's no answer, and Mikey doesn't leave a message. He parks himself in a Starbucks and sits for twenty minutes, reading and checking his texts.

It's twenty minutes before Pete calls back, and Mikey smiles to himself before answering.

“Stop screening me you fucker,” Mikey says, and he stands up and walks outside, grabbing his drink and tucking his book under his arm. He puts his sunglasses on before stepping into the sun and it's still too bright.

“Stop calling me while I'm busy, asshole,” Pete's smiling. Mikey knows how he talks when he smiles. He knows how Pete talks when he's pretty much everything, actually. The smile comes through. “How's Jersey?”

“I wouldn't know. I'm in LA,” Mikey answers, and he smiles again when Pete curses.

“Come over. Wait, no. I'll come find you. Where are you?” Mikey hears a fumble of phone and keys and then the sound of a car door and a blast of music before he answers. He has to look up at the street signs, squinting through his glasses before he can give Pete an address.

It's ten minutes before Pete shows up, stopping at the corner and leaning over to open the door of the car. He's already on the phone again, and Mikey slides in next to him, setting his Starbucks in the cup holder next to Pete's water bottle. The radio's on low and Mikey changes the station, earning a glare from Pete and a click of the phone as he hangs up.

“I was listening to that,” Pete says, and he puts the car in gear, pulling back into traffic.

“You were on the phone. Hello, by the way,” Mikey says, turning the air conditioner down and wondering what else he can fuck with on Pete's dashboard. It's an ongoing joke between them, adjusting all the little defaults that people set up for themselves. He starts changing the memory buttons for radio stations while Pete talks at him, about videos and Hey Monday and the hardcore band he's trying to talk Patrick into producing for.

“Where's Ashlee?” Mikey asks, and Pete doesn't look at him, even though they're at a red light. Mikey watches him though.

“Dropped her at the airport this morning. She's gone to Texas,” Pete says, turning left and then pulling into his driveway. He doesn't speak again till they're at his front door and he's fumbling for keys. He unlocks the door but doesn't open it, instead turning to face Mikey. He's grinning a little, his and fuck, it's been a long time since Mikey's seen Pete like this, free enough to smile and look like something might actually be wrong, instead of hiding whatever he was feeling and projecting whatever he thought you'd want to see.

“Ok, this is a little fucked up,” Pete says and Mikey takes a sip of his Starbucks while he waits for Pete to finish his sentence. It's how they've always worked, Pete starts his thought and Mikey waits till Pete manages to finish his thought. “I sort of am really excited that you're here. And Ash isn't.”

One of Mikey's eyebrows shoots up and Pete doesn't keep going. He opens the door and walks in, Mikey following behind him. He closes the door, and toes off his shoes and follows Pete through the house to the kitchen. Pete's pulling out food, his head in the fridge and a frying pan already on the stove.

Mikey leans against the doorframe and watches Pete move around his kitchen, comfortable and easy in everything except his state of mind. His body is relaxed, his shoulders down and his hands still and steady. His eyes, though, are frantic. Too fast and too glazed and Mikey knows better than to corner him, mentally or physically, at this point. He waits till Pete's got three slices of french toast in the pan and then moves from the doorframe to the island in the middle of the kitchen, leaning on it, across from Pete.

Before Mikey can say anything, Pete turns to face him, waving a spatula in one hand and taking a deep breath.

“I don't mean it like that,” he says, and then he sighs. “Ok, I just. We don't get to talk anymore. And I'm not saying it's Ashlee's fault, or Alicia's fault or whatever, but there's just. I mean you and I. And I missed you. And we-”

Mikey reaches out and grabs the spatula that Pete's been waving around and it stops Pete's babbling rant, at least long enough for Mikey to get a word or two in.

“Pete, I know.”

He's going in blind when he pulls Pete in for a hug, Pete's hips into his own and one hand catching on the back of Mikey's neck, the spatula clattering to the floor.

They hold on, and it's not until Mikey pushes him gently away, snagging the spatula off the floor and moving to the oven to flip the french toast, more to give Pete some privacy than to actually save anything from burning, because he's too used to burnt food for it to really matter.

Pete moves to the cupboard and pulls out plates, setting them next to Mikey before grabbing butter and syrup from the fridge and disappearing for a minute. Mikey check the french toast and turns off the oven, listening to the sound of Pete's footsteps on the stairs before he reappears. Mikey puts the french toast on the plates, splitting the third piece between them.

“Let's go downstairs. We'll watch a movie,” Pete says and Mikey nods, and they head down to the basement.

They should catch up, they should talk to each other, refresh on what they do, they should figure out when to hang out again.

They should talk about what the hell happened in 2005, and why the hell they never talked about it in the first place.

Instead, they watch a movie, eat french toast and chips and drink enough coke that Mikey's pretty sure his skin is vibrating, and by three in the morning Pete still hasn't asked when Mikey's going home, where he's staying, or how Alicia is.

Pete falls asleep halfway through the third movie, one hand curled around Mikey's shoulder and the other tucked up by his chin. Mikey slips out, moves from the leather chair silently, grabbing the plates and heading up the stairs. He stops at each step, looks at photos that Pete's got on his walls.

It's a collection of things that matter to Pete. His band, his Decaydance bands, his clothing stores, his family, his wife, his kid. His friends.

Mikey remembers when they wouldn't take photos together. He remembers Pete kissing him quiet, telling him he didn't want to remember it like that.

He regrets it now, because it's intangible. Whatever they had, whatever it was. There's nothing but a few blog entries that don't mean a hell of a lot and whatever Mikey can piece together from a mostly drunken haze of a summer.

It's not fucking much.  
He stands at the sink and turns on the tap, running the water till it's just this side of too hot and putting the plates under the stream. He's got both hands in the sink when he feels Pete behind him, pressed too close, sleep warm and his breath hot and sticky on the back of Mikey's neck.

“I miss you like that,” he says and Mikey drops his head, his breathing picking up it's pace. Pete reaches around him and turns off the faucet, pushing the plates out of Mikey's hand and pulling on his shoulder to turn him around. They're pressed together and Mikey can't help putting his hands on Pete's waist, pulling him closer, because it's just-

It's what they do. It's what they've always done, before all of this and everything else.

Pete kisses him, pushes him back against the counter, and Mikey's hands are grabbing at Pete's shirt, shoving it up and teasing at the skin underneath.

It's over just as fast at it starts.

One second their kissing, the next, Pete's pulled back, at least out of the kiss. He's still holding Mikey, and both of them are aware of the fact that they're more than a little turned on. They're close, pressed up against each other.

Pete's a million miles away.

Mikey knows this, too. Knows the guilt, the way Pete gets when he's gone too far. In sex, in song, in whatever the fuck it is that Pete's doing right then. He could be naked and riding Mikey's dick, and he could still be looking somewhere on another planet.

“Pete,” Mikey says, and Pete nods, pulling away. He leans across from Mikey, agains the kitchen island. “It doesn't-”

“No, Mikey. It means exactly what it means.” Pete won't look at him. That's not new either.

“I'm gonna go.”

Mikey grabs his phone, and sits on the curb at the end of Pete's driveway, calling himself a cab. He's pretty sure they'll never talk about this, either.

He's right.


End file.
